O O O
Millie dreamed of breaking bones and tearing muscles. Pain lanced through her joints, as if they were being pulled apart, as if her very body was being reshaped in sleep. When she woke to the light of dawn, she discovered it had been.
Her feet were both longer than she remembered and further away by nearly a pace. Her shoulders had broadened, and the straight lines of her body had bent themselves into the curves of womanhood, filling in the flesh between.
The fingertips Millie ran along her face found terrain familiar yet not. Her raven hair hung to her waist. She had crossed through adolescence in the span between midnight and dawn. She rose, wincing and aching. Confusion gripped her before understanding pried its fingers away.
For what was coming, looking helpless would be a detriment.
Her clothes were a ruin. Fortunately it did not take her long to find a fresh corpse from which to borrow clothing. The horses, now unicorns all, had followed her example and turned upon their handlers in the night, and the once-white uniform on a nearby body had escaped the worst of what had been visited upon its owner. Pulling tunic and trousers on over her now adult frame, Millie noted with a pleased sense of irony that the once-white cloth now had its own rust-colored stains.
The herd followed her lead as if they shared a single mind. Each animal seemed to seek her out and lock eyes with her, each piece of the whole wanting to be acknowledged in its own small way. Reporting for duty.
So it was that Millie reached the capital leading an army of blood red unicorns only to find the gates barred to her.
“I would speak with the queen,” Millie’s voice, backed by the herd, was the full-throated roar of a woman in her prime. “I bring her the spoils of her war!” She made sure the guards could see the stolen uniform she wore, and she brandished her horn high. She had not grown up in a single night for naught. She would need to fight soon.
The gates cracked open, and spear-hefting soldiers in true white uniforms spilled out in ranks, moving to encircle Millie and the herd. Though the soldiers’ fabric gleamed blindingly in the sun and they stood proud and tall to a person, Millie could still see the artifice. Too young in some places, too old in others.
The cream of the queen’s ranks had either perished on the field or were still staggering back, bloodied and wearied by war. But it mattered not. Millie would not fight these soldiers. They were here to take possession of the herd, which they watched with a mixture of wariness and awe. Unicorns were seldom seen in lands trod by human feet—red unicorns the rarest of all. This was a gift beyond price.
The ranks completed their circle but for a space immediately before Millie, where only a single warrior stood. She wore shining plate and held a sword and shield, each gleaming mirror bright. The woman’s hair was a river of gold tamed into a braid that wound about her head.
“Who are you?” The warrior’s voice rang out like the pealing of a great bell. A woman used to declamation, to having her words transmuted into law. Millie’s newfound awareness muttered within her, guiding her eyes to the golden circlet beneath that coiled braid.
“My name is Millie Carver, Highness,” Millie said to the queen. She recalled the stories of the warrior queen who had quite literally won the throne on the edge of her sword. The queen fairly burned with passionate fire, but she had pointed it in entirely the wrong direction. She must be dealt with here and now. Matters had always bent to this.
I will take her throne for my own, Millie thought in the voice that had supplanted hers.
“I was told to expect a gift of horses, delivered by my own soldiers. Instead unicorns arrive, delivered by a young woman wearing a bloodstained, ill-fitting uniform. Are you a soldier of mine?” The queen sounded incredulous.
“No, Highness,” Millie said. “I murdered the soldier whose clothes I now wear.” It would be sad to destroy the queen. So much Righteous potential, but her certainty had been hardened into the wrong shape long ago. In another life she and Millie might have been sisters, pieces of the same whole.
“By your own lips you condemn yourself,” the queen said, eyes alight with anger. “The beasts are uncanny and unnatural. But they will fetch high enough prices outside my kingdom to rebuild what your Covenant has destroyed. Let those with a lust for such oddities risk whatever malefic secrets they hide.”
At the queen’s gesture, the soldiers lowered their spears, turning their circle into a razor-toothed mouth, ready to close lest the creatures try anything. The unicorns watched them placidly, eerily still.
“You, though,” the queen said, “you I will see dead for the sake of justice.” She drew her sword. “I honor you by giving you death by combat. I will see that you are armed—”
“I have my weapon,” Millie said, brandishing her horn.
The queen squinted, but finally nodded. “Don’t think to trick me with some magic toy, girl. I am warded against such by armor, clothing, and skin. If it is your wish to die behind that bit of bloody ivory, so be it.”
So certain. The part of Millie that was still Millie felt a fear as strong as any in her life, but the enormity of that which occupied her mind and body steadied her. All was as it should be. All would be well. Renewed, Millie smiled and stepped toward the queen, the other woman mirroring the action.
They held blade and horn before their faces then swept them down and outward in salute. In an eye blink, Millie visualized the battle, how she would rend the world’s fabric, severing the queen’s sword arm, shield arm, and head in quick succession. It would all be over with her first strike. She raised the horn to deflect the queen’s swing, already bunching her muscles to deal merciful death in three subsequent motions.
The blade sheared through the horn as though it did not exist, burying its icy edge into Millie’s shoulder and carving cruelly deep.
Millie fell, shock overwhelming the freezing burn of the pain. A cloudy sense of betrayal rose up as her heart beat out her life upon the cobbled avenue.
“Madwoman,” the queen said, shaking her head in wonder and disgust. “Now you know justice.”
Why? Millie asked the question over and over in her head, timed with the beats of her treacherous heart. Why? Why? Why? The answers that had once come to her so readily, so easily, drew away, like village lights receding into the foggy night. Have I not done well?
But a last niggling mote of understanding drew her vision, shrinking now to a tunnel, toward the queen as she cleaned her blade of Millie’s blood on Millie’s own stolen cloak.
The queen had so much Righteous potential. It was only pointed the wrong way. Millie watched as a tiny bead of blood evaded the queen’s efforts, sliding up the runnel on the bottom side of the blade.
You were but a part of me, the thing within her whispered with startling clarity. For a time, the most important part. But only the whole of me matters. And for true victory, they must believe they have won. Now, their very hero will invest me within her nation and her people.
The bead of blood slipped undetected up the queen’s sleeve, leaving no stain to mark its passage.
And they will welcome it.
About the Author
Rocket scientist by day and fantasy and science fiction author by night, Gregory D. Little’s short fiction can also be found in The Colored Lens. His debut YA fantasy novel, Unwilling Souls, will be released in 2015. He lives in Virginia with his wife and their yellow Lab.
Odin’s Eye
Frank Morin
Ragnar Narwhal stood at the tail end of a half-circle of better men. He scanned the younger, stronger faces of mighty warriors, already veterans of many seasons of violent struggle in the harsh northland.
By Idun’s wrath, they were barely more than children to him. He was the last of the old warriors. The most blessed of his brothers in arms had fallen in glorious battle. The unlucky had succumbed to festering battle wounds, and a few had suffered ignoble deaths by dying in their sleep.
Ragnar had outlived them all. He’d been a great
warrior. Too great.
Now he suppressed a grimace as he struggled to stand tall without the aid of his crutch. He rubbed his hands across his best leathers and the concealed pockets inside. He had never resorted to subterfuge before, but today he faced his last and greatest challenge. Even if he outlived the coming winter snows, his last chance of a glorious death in battle had passed years ago. Today would be his final opportunity to earn a place with the blessed einherjar in Valhalla’s halls of glory.
The warriors stood in the center of the village before a roaring bonfire that held at bay the last of the autumn night’s chill. The heat felt good on his bad leg. Outside of the circle of heat, the rest of the villagers hovered in the fading shadows.
“She comes,” cried Horik Vermundson, clan chief and the primary contender in today’s contest.
Ragnar stiffened, bringing his thoughts to the present while his companions straightened, hands tightening on axe handles worn smooth from long use. He followed Horik’s gaze into the northern sky, gray with the coming of dawn, and spotted the approaching figure.
The Valkyrie descended from the cloud-laden sky astride a mighty red unicorn. The eight-legged creature was a wonder, the pride of Odin’s stables. Ragnar had seen it once before, the last time the Valkyries had come to the village to honor their clan with a choosing. The unicorn was longer than a mortal stallion, but only a little broader. As the other warriors gaped in wonder, having been too young to remember the last Valkyrie visit, Ragnar glanced to the left where the maidens waited.
Dressed in their finest, the girls whispered among themselves as the magnificent unicorn galloped from the sky. His own Nora, one of the eldest of the candidates at sixteen, reassured Unfrin, the twelve-year-old daughter of mighty Ref-Nose Gimrson. Nora was always helping, and he smiled to see her acting true to her nature even today, when others might have suppressed qualities often deemed weak or undesirable. She was dressed in a fine linen dress with an elaborately worked leather vest and covered in a snowy white bear pelt she had helped him cure. As the village tanner, he had saved the finest pelt for her.
The unicorn came to ground with a sound like the striking of Thor’s hammer, stirring up a cloud of dust. By the time the air cleared, the Valkyrie had dismounted. She stood tall for a woman, her thick, blonde hair falling loose about her shoulders, unlike the maidens who wore theirs in complex braids. She wore black leathers with a crimson cloak. Her face glowed, her cheeks pale as ice, her lips blood red, and her eyes a glittering gold. Only dim vestiges remained of Olga, the little girl she had been before being taken from the village so long ago.
He took it as a good sign that she had been the one sent to choose the next maiden to join the Valkyrie ranks. Again he glanced at his beloved daughter. Nora would honor the village and his legacy. Today he would settle both of their fates.
Horik approached Olga the Valkyrie and saluted with his axe. “Welcome, daughter of the skies.” He might have been young, but he had taken to the pomp and long-winded speeches of chieftain with the ease of a seal slipping into the icy North Sea.
As Horik launched into his speech and the other contestants gathered closer to Olga, Ragnar slowly circled around the gathering. All eyes were glued to the beautiful Valkyrie, so he took the chance of approaching the mighty unicorn that hovered some paces behind her.
The creature towered over him, its shoulder a solid seven feet from the frozen turf. It looked down upon him with brilliant sapphire eyes that sparkled with intelligence. Hopefully he hadn’t underestimated its cleverness.
Too late to change plans now. Wrapping himself in remembered honor, he approached the beast and extended a hand, proffering a cluster of his best carrots.
The unicorn smelled of cinders and snowfields after a battle. It snorted once, softly, and dipped its head toward his hand. Its glittering golden horn was long enough to spear him and a friend together.
Ragnar stood perfectly still as it sniffed his offering. Its breath washed over him like an icy breeze, filling him with the fiery thrill of battle, the likes of which he had not felt since his youthful berserking days.
In a single inhalation, the unicorn sucked the carrots right out of his hand and lifted its head away. For a second, its piercing gaze lingered on his face. Then with regal grace, it winked at him.
How was he supposed to respond to that?
The unicorn glanced to the side where the Valkyrie stood silently listening to Horik’s ongoing monologue, as if checking to make sure she hadn’t noticed it snacking while on the job.
Ragnar retreated before anyone noticed. He had hoped to talk with the creature, but that would have to wait. The first skirmish had proven successful. Only with careful increments would he win this battle.
The Valkyrie who had been Olga Gaukrsdottir inclined her head, accepting the honor Horik bestowed upon her. Without bothering with additional formalities, she surveyed the gathered warriors. “You, the fathers of the maiden candidates, will meet in a contest of arms to determine which family will win the honor of dedicating their daughter to Odin’s service.”
Ragnar joined the others in a mighty cheer, which was taken up by the rest of the villagers. Dawn had lifted the cloak of night from the village and the nearby fjord. Soon Sol would ride her blazing chariot into the eastern sky and begin the long journey across the heavens for another day.
“Today we will see which of you is blessed of Thor and of Loki,” Olga continued.
She explained that the contestants would face five challenges. Four would be selected by lucky competitors who won the initial toss of the bones and the final by whoever led in the standings by that time.
The initial game of chance wasn’t such a simple thing. As the men stepped up to a thick table made of hewn oak to cast the bones that would decide the game of chance, most of the men purposefully threw badly, knocking the bones from the table and thus disqualifying themselves. They weren’t clumsy. They were ceding the honor to the greatest warriors, those everyone knew would most likely win the day.
Ragnar could no longer afford such high standards. He broke from the unspoken agreement and threw the stones true. A couple of the younger men grumbled at the breach of etiquette, but since they were all technically cheating, how could they complain that Ragnar didn’t cheat right?
Ragnar earned the fourth spot, behind the clan chief Horik and two others, both great warriors with daughters old enough to stand in the candidates’ circle. Ref-Nose Gimrson stood as tall as Ragnar himself had in his youth. Arnlaugr Anlafson was half again as broad as any of the other men and as strong as an ox. If not for Ragnar’s dire need, he too would have rooted for one of the three mighty men to win the competition.
No one gave Ragnar a second thought. He was allowed to compete because his precious Nora was a jewel of the village and she had to stand with the other maidens. Ragnar’s days of glory had passed so long ago, villagers avoided looking him in the eye for fear that his looming dishonor might rub off on them.
Before this day ended, they’d chant his name one last time.
Horik chose first, as was his right. “First, we drink to honor Odin!”
The choice was greeted with loud cheering and enthusiasm as the contestants led Olga to the great hall. Casks of the clan’s best ale were produced and the men assembled for the most popular drinking game.
Ragnar downed his first mug in time with the others, silently saluting Horik for the crafty choice. No man ever wanted to admit another could out-drink him, so the contestants cheered each other on as they drank mug after clay mug. They eagerly honored their fathers, but forgot that today’s drinking wouldn’t end in drunken brawling.
Ragnar only drained three pints before spilling one. Horik dropped out at five. He gave Ragnar a knowing smile when he rose from the table amidst good-natured jeering from the other men.
Most of the others managed at least eight mugs. The winner, Ref-Nose, drained fourteen before collapsing under the table. They staggered out of the great hal
l, chanting Ref-Nose’s name. Two of the more stable contestants dragged Ref-Nose out from under the table and carried him along.
Nora rushed to Ragnar when he limped out of the hall. He leaned on her, smiling at how lovely she looked, how she walked with the confidence of a woman years her senior. With her older siblings all married with families of their own, she worked with him and Alf, his only apprentice, as good a man as any still living.
Nora was as strong as her elder brothers, but possessed a grace and a skill of hand none of them had ever matched. With her help, his furs had never turned out better. No doubt Odin himself would commission a new winter coat from her once he saw the quality of her work.
It took several minutes before Ref-Nose could croak out his choice for the next round. “Axe throwing.”
Ragnar smiled. The day was working in his favor.
They took turns throwing axes at a series of ever-shrinking targets set at ever-increasing distances. Most of the men, still unsteady from their heavy drinking, barely scored hits on the first two.
Ragnar clove nine.
Men who had accepted him into the company only for Nora’s sake or because he’d once been mighty looked on him with new respect. Only Arnlaugr Anlafson tied Ragnar, and he was the second-best axe thrower in the village. Ref-Nose usually was first, but he’d drunk so much he placed a distant fourth.
“By Thor,” Horik exclaimed when he missed his seventh target, landing him in third place, “Ragnar, how did you do that?”
“I have Thor’s blessing today,” Ragnar said, waving at the cheering crowds.
He didn’t add that ever since he’d injured his leg, he’d mastered the art. He’d brought down hares, a deer, and even a couple of his neighbor’s sheep that had wandered into his yard.
He shared a triumphantly raised fist with Nora when she came to check on him. She kissed his cheek and hugged him tight, even though it might diminish his image of a fierce warrior. Under the guise of tending his wounded leg, she slipped him a small ceramic jar. He rubbed the contents across the back of his leather leggings when no one was looking.
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